Every morning I wake up to a vaguely lit room. I feel slightly too hot, and I have to use the bathroom. I use the bathroom, typically drink a few sips of water out of the sink, put some eye drops in, and get back in the bed. My phone tells me my alarm will go off anywhere between twenty minutes to two hours from now. The person in my bed is always fast asleep, sometimes snoring. Usually his back is to me when I get back, and I pull back the covers and slide in behind him. I entwine my fingers in his thick, black hair and deeply inhale the warm scent of the soft skin on his back. I run my other hand along his side, down his thigh, sometimes pausing to scratch or rub his shoulders and neck. I'll sometimes drift off to that gray space between wakefulness and sleeping. When the alarm goes off, I get up and get ready for work, pausing here and there to get down on the bed and tell the person there that I love him. Or that he is beautiful. Or that he is the most wonderful man in the whole world, and that he is perfect. I lean in, and pet his hair, and whisper these things directly into his ear. Sometimes he responds with these soft grunts that affirm that he hears I'm talking, but he's not quite listening. Sometimes he is able to respond with a muffled, "I luh you, baby..." I don't think he really remembers everything I say to him in the mornings, but I like to think he subconsciously does.

I haven't been here in a while.
Down this hall, in this room.
The bookshelves that line the walls are full of musty old books
That are red and black and well-worn and barely cracked open
That are blue and brown and ripped and priceless

I don't want to be here, but something led me here
Because I had to leave the other house I was in.
Because I needed shelter, for me and my daughter.
Because I knew this room, down this hall.
And I knew it was safe, even though I forgot what was inside.

Old ghosts whisper from behind the yellowed pages in the books that line the walls.
Secrets and treasures and shame and anger.
My face gets hot because this nostalgia is a roller coaster
My heart leaps and I get a head rush when I read an old love letter.
I feel awkward and empowered
But then I remember the shame and guilt.
An old face wanders into the frame and I want to crawl in a hole
And die because that's not who I am anymore.
Who I was to them is no longer around, and no longer relevant.